


Safe, if not (yet) Sound

by pollitt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes an astounding 18 minutes for Sherlock to drop onto the couch and declare “bored.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe, if not (yet) Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Maverick for the beta and title help, and for requesting Sherlock in plaid flannel (and then provided me with pictures of BC and Fraser for inspiration ;)

It takes an astounding 18 minutes for Sherlock to drop onto the couch and declare “bored.”

John has barely had an opportunity to shrug off his thick jacket, to move their cases to the corner of the room where the bed is. He is, in fact, just starting to unpack the tins of food when he hears the muffled thump and Sherlock’s lament. A memory of one of Sherlock’s more trigger-happy boredom relievers flashes into John’s mind, and for their comfort, saftey, and the well-being of the shack’s wall, he’s happy he thought to have the guns well-hidden before they’d arrived.

Not that Sherlock couldn't find them easily, but the challenge in doing so would at least keep boredom at bay for a period of time.

“I’m still failing to see how Mycroft thought secreting me away in the Canadian Arctic would would be a wise thing to do.” Sherlock stretches his leg over the arm of the couch and picks at the heavy denim at his thigh. He lifts the bottom of the hem of the red and black plaid flannel he was clad in. “Or why this ridiculous outfit was necessary.”

Not for the first time, John wondered how someone so brilliant--who missed nothing--could also be so oblivious.

“You almost died, Sherlock. There are very horrible men plotting your death. Your brother is trying to keep you safe. And as your friend, your personal physician, your partner, the man who shares your bed--I have a vested interest in your well-being. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“And the middle of nowhere is the best location? Away from police and protection--”

“You have me. And wi-fi.” The tins, John decides, can wait. He steps away from counter and moves toward Sherlock. “You can’t tell me that Mycroft hasn’t thought of that. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t the entrance to the underground headquarters of MI6 somewhere nearby. That would certainly explain the wi-fi.”

Sherlock swings his legs onto the ground and stands, and John has to bite back a smile at the excited curiosity on Sherlock’s face as the idea takes hold. Although whether it’s the prospect of a secret spy lair beneath their shack or the promise of internet, John’s not certain.

“I’m still at a loss about these,” Sherlock waves at both his and John’s attire. “Our accents alone will identify us as foreigners. I could, possibly, match the appropriate accent, but I don’t hold out hope that your mastery of vocal work could have you passing. These clothes are straight out of theatrical casting.”

John looks down at his jeans, his heavy Aran sweater, and his old army boots. “Sherlock, these are my clothes.”

“Are they? They’re --” It’s a rare moment when Sherlock looks almost abashed.

“Just forget it. The less said the better off you’ll be.” John smiles, pulling off his sweater and revealing a plaid shirt underneath. “Especially if we’re going to work on alleviating your boredom.”

“I’m listening.” Sherlock steps back toward the couch, grinning wider as John follows him.

“We can begin with these clothes.”


End file.
